


Role Reversal

by bookfairy_writes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookfairy_writes/pseuds/bookfairy_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sees Irene in an entirely new position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Reversal

"Dominatrix implies dominant," he remarked as she held her wrists above her head for the second dominatrix to tie.

"It does," she agreed, smiling at the second woman.

"And you're being tied up because?"

"It's important to see my work from the receiving end from time to time. Seeing my clients' perspective helps me be better at what I do."

Shifting in the leather armchair, Sherlock glanced at the woman now wrapping Irene's ankles in a cloth wrap before strapping them on opposite sides of a bar, holding her legs wide apart. 

"And I am here because?"

"You said you were bored."

"I often complain of boredom."

"Not on days I have training scheduled. You are more than welcome to leave when the session is over; the doors have been locked already and the room is booked."

The dominatrix that was not Irene nodded at him, the key gleaming silver on a chain dangling between her ample breasts. She then returned her attention to the Woman, ensuring that she was settled in a partially reclining position with her wrists tied above her head to a metal hook.

"Any trouble breathing?"

"A bit. The seat needs to be a little higher I think."

After adjusting the height of the chair which appeared to be part hammock, the woman checked again with Irene.

"Everything in order?"

"Perfectly."

The other dominatrix smiled and drew a black silk strip of cloth from between her breasts and used it to blindfold Irene.

 

 

"Oh I forgot to introduce you," Irene said conversationally as though she wasn't tied up and in the process of being blindfolded. "This is Mistress Golden. Mistress, my associate."

"Pleasure," Golden replied. "Are you comfortable, pet?"

"Quite," Irene replied. "Or were you speaking to him?"

"Both, either."

Sherlock nodded shortly, a quick dip of the chin, and Mistress Golden turned back to the Woman, adjusting the blindfold microscopically before stalking into a side room, her heels clicking on the stone floor. 

"Will this take long?" Sherlock asked.

_Crack_ , the whip snapped a foot from his face.

"You're not to speak during the session. I usually charge for watchers."

"I have no desire to," he began, but the Mistress cracked the whip again, this time eliciting a soft gasp of what could be pain or pleasure from Irene. Refocusing, he watched as Mistress Golden cracked the whip again, drawing another gasp from the bound woman he had come to think of as encompassing all one of her sex could be. There were no marks on her skin that he could see; the whip had to be cracking close enough to the skin for her to feel its passing.

"Have you been wicked?" the Mistress asked and Irene chuckled, low and sultry.

"I have, Mistress."

It was odd, Sherlock mused, to see The Woman out her usual power position. Part of her appeal was her strength, the fact that she equalled him, competed with him, could match wits and win. This new sight, of her bound and blinded was interesting. He was unsure about his opinions on the matter and so he observed, trying to deduce what would come next, what she enjoyed and what she pretended to. 

Cracking the whip again, Irene gasped again, sharply this time and he noted a sharp red streak across the pale skin of her breasts. There was no blood but a welt was already forming, the skin inflamed by the blow. The Mistress lay the whip down and bent over Irene. Puckering her lips, she blew a thin stream of air over the fresh welt causing the Woman to shiver.

_Pleasurable_ , Sherlock noted. She had not seemed to mind the whip's sting on her skin but this teasing...she enjoyed it. Her breathing was shallower and her skin slightly flushed. 

Placing two fingers under the Woman's chin, the Mistress purred into her face.

"Shall I give you permission to beg?"

The dark head nodded, black silk blindfold a streak across her face. 

"You have my permission."

After the whip came candles, carefully placed on her stomach and the tops of her thighs. The Mistress dipped her fingers in the wax and drew on the pale skin of Irene Adler, following the lines of heat exactly with cubes of ice. 

His mind buzzing, Sherlock watched. He took note that she preferred the hot wax to the melting cubes of ice, the stream of air over the whip's kiss, and that she often tilted her head back, offering her neck to the Mistress. He had left marks on that neck, fierce little bruises that his teeth had made and in the memory he found a flash or arousal. 

 In his moment of distraction he heard the sound of tearing cloth and found that Irene's bra had been torn off. Velcro where the clasp should have been made it easy, but the sound was so similar to that of tering fabric that he became momentarily confused, looking from the bra on the floor back to the now-topless Woman as the Mistress began gently pouring hot wax over her breasts, letting it trickle down to cover the nipple.

Her entire body seemed to undulate, head thrown back, mouth half-open in a gasp of pleasure. Within his trousers, Sherlock felt his penis twitch, blood flowing into it. The Mistress repeated the process with the other breast and peeled off the wax caps before beginning again. The Woman's skin was flushed, not only from the hot wax, and Sherlock found himself gripping the arms of the leather chair. As soon as he noticed he loosened his hands, trying to resume his relaxed position, but it was becoming impossible. Watching her move, making soft little gasps as the Mistress moved around her, using wax and a tool he was intimately familiar with--a leather crop. She began with blows to the stomach, the shoulders, even one to the breast, and then worked down, leaving red marks like road signs that lead to the juncture between her legs.

Snaps, quick and sharp, left red kisses along her inner thighs and though the Mistress never touched the lace of her knickers, the occasional restrained thrust of her pelvis, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, betrayed her arousal. Her nipples, red and faintly inflamed from multiple encounters with hot wax stood high, begging for more stimulation. His fingers were digging into the arms of the chair again.

The Mistress worked in slow, sensuous patterns, alternating between the wax and crop, carefully observing the bound woman to ensure that every action provided the intended response. It was...sexy. Sherlock had never understood the meaning of the word outside of the context of Irene, but then again this wasn't outside of the context of Irene. Instead of the composer she was the instrument and watching her body be played made him want to climb from the chair and run his hands over her, stroke the bites from the crop, trace the lines of wax, surprise and pleasure her the way that this other Mistress did. The mastery of her art was impressive, and yet he doubted he would have found it the least bit interesting had her subject been anyone other than the Woman, the singular person who could bring him to his knees. The only person he had ever begged for more. The Woman who beat him and fought him again for the pure pleasure of the competition.

The Mistress paused from her routine and began to walk around the Woman, still blindfolded and bound. Her heels clicked on the concrete, a steady rhythm that after a minute drew a sound from the Woman.

"Mistress Golden?"

"Yes pet?"

He watched her full lips part, hesitate, watched the pride that kept her from begging pass across her face, battle the desire, and lose. 

"Please."

"Please what, pet?"

When the Woman spoke, her voice was low and sultry, the voice that once drove him to press her up against a wall and fuck her until his knees were too weak to support him. 

"May I have him?"

The dominatrix turned to him, raising a coal black brow.

"Well? Would you have her?"

Sherlock was sure that his erection was clearly outlined by his trousers, that his pale face was flushed and pupils blown wide. Licking his lips, he hesitated before standing.

"You may not touch her," Mistress Golden said crisply and from Irene came a sound he had never heard from her--a whimper. A rush of arousal ran over him. Was this how she felt, playing his body and mind as surely as he played his violin? Was the power, the arousal this intense? He closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing the endorphins to rush through his body.

"And why not?"

The dominatrix's expression did not waver.

"It is not time."

Usually he would have dismissed this answer as ridiculous. If the Woman wished to be touched (which she clearly did) then who was anyone else to stop him from fulfilling her wishes? She had asked for him, and had he not been curious as to what would come next, he might have ignored the dominatrix and ran his hands over every inch of her skin, drawing sounds from her throat that could make him lose focus as nothing else could. But the itch of curiosity, the question of what was to occur next, why she answered "it is not time" rather than a simple 'no'. These kept him from letting his skin meet hers.

"You understand how this works, don't you pet?" the dominatrix asked, and Irene nodded.

"Please. May I have him?"

Picking up a candle from the small table beside her, she handed it to Sherlock.

"Pour."

His observations had not been in vain. He could see in his mind every tender spot, every place that made her gasp, and he drizzled wax along those lines, trying not to toss the candle aside and climb atop her. Her gasps made it more difficult, but he managed. Barely. When there was no more wax pooling in the candle's base, he handed it back and the Mistress held a finger up, signalling for him to wait.

"Mistress," Irene asked, more breathless this time. "May I have him?"

 Mistress Golden met his eye. 

"Remove it. No more contact than necessary."

As he peeled the now-dry wax from her skin, he allowed his fingers to only graze her flesh, a teasing touch that drew another breath that was almost a whimper from her throat. The pad of his thumb glanced her inner thigh as he peeled of a particularly large patch of wax and her hips rose, thrusting towards the contact. It earned her a sharp blow from the crop across her breasts but she didn't seem to care. He could see her arousal now, written all over her body from the erect nipples to the flushed skin to the way her body seemed to be wound tight, waiting for a release to free the tension.

She handed him another candle and again he drizzled wax. Again he removed it. Her hips did not move as much the second time, just enough for a warning blow, but it took every ounce of his self control, his pride, his reputation to keep from dropping to his knees and meeting her thrusts with his own. 

A third time they repeated the routine and then the Mistress drew a watch from a pocket of her fitted trousers. 

"Ms. Carton, we seem to be out of time."

Irene's voice shook when she replied. 

"Of course."

"You have the standard half hour before the room will need to be cleaned."

"I understand," she replied breathlessly and without so much as a goodbye, the dominatrix strode from the room, closing the door to the small front room of the suite before letting herself out into the hall.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a moment before gently running his fingers over a particularly raised welt on her inner thigh, drawing a sharp gasp from his partner.

"Sherlock."

"I take it that denial of orgasm is what you were attempting to experience?" 

How he managed to sound so calm, even to his own ears, astounded him.

"Yes." It was a whisper.

"Will she return to unbind you?" His fingers circled the welt and followed the pattern of them as high as they went on her body before following them back down, allowing his hand to brush the edge of her knickers.

Her hips bucked.

"I need you to fuck me."

"What?" His voice had dropped an octave, he was sure of it, and one hand was already at his belt, ready to remove his trousers in an instant.

She said it again, this time a breathy plead that sent electricity up his spine.

" _Fuck me_."

His fingers flew and his trousers were around his ankles, pants following moments later and he dropped to his knees, pushing her kickers aside as he slid his erection into her.

The sound that escaped his mouth, a low growling moan, seemed to arouse her further and she thrust towards him.

"Please," she gasped. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, pushing himself deeper into her body and using his other hand, he seized one of her nipples, twisting it fiercely as he pulled the other between his lips and began to suck vigorously, his teeth scraping, tongue fluttering over the tip in a flurry of movement.

Throwing her head back, she gasped again, 

"Oh God, Sherlock. More."

Tightening his grip on her waist, he thrust again, sliding part of the way out before driving himself back into her with a grunt. In and out, he worked himself into a rhythm, timing the flicks of his tongue over her nipple so they matched the pace his hips set against hers. Her body shuddered, heat flushing up and through her. He could feel the orgasm building, and releasing the nipple he was twisting between his fingertips, he lowered his hand to the juncture between her legs, stroking over and around with his thumb until it grazed her clitoris. Her body jolted and pressed against him and he ran his thumb over the bundle of nerves again, watching her entire body buck at the lightest touch of his finger. 

"Sherlock," she gasped, and his hips sped up, chasing a hot wave of pleasure he could feel moving up his body, ready to break. 

_No_ , he thought. _Not yet_.

His thumb worked her clitoris in circles, speeding its tempo to match the one set by his hips and tongue. He could feel the wave of heat through his torso, begging for release. She tensed again, moving around him in increasingly jerky movements. And then...there. Her whole body seemed to lift, pressing itself to where they were joined. And as her muscles spasmed, his control fell away and his orgasm rushed up through him, drawing a cry from his lips as he rode their joined forms through the series of slowly decreasing waves.

When it was over he seemed to melt off of her, his limbs heavy as his brain flooded itself with pleasure hormones. It took longer than it should have for him to clear his head and when he did, he stood, trousers still around his ankles, and unclasped the bar holding her ankles apart, untied hr wrists, and pulled the blindfold from her eyes.

"Ms. Carton?" He asked, though it was difficult to sound superior when his knees still felt like jelly.

"I am the best, Mr. Holmes. I can't have others in my field knowing when they are helping me train. So I bring a persona, as I do to any other engagement."

"And do you feel you learned something?" 

Heavy lidded, her eyes met his.

"I believe I did."

As he pulled up his pants and trousers, rezipping the fly and doing up the belt, she located her bra and replaced it, used a clean towel to wipe the trail of his semen slowly inching down her inner thigh, and pulled her clothes from a cupboard on the wall.

"What did you intend to learn?"

She smiled at him, suddenly wicked.

"You'll play my games."

Sherlock froze in the middle of tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

"You..."

"I enjoyed myself," Irene agreed coolly. "I can appreciate good work; she was very attentive to what I liked and she stuck to the script we'd discussed."

"But you--" 

"Got Sherlock Holmes on his knees before me, aroused enough that he tossed aside his usual reservations and fucked me with his trousers at his ankles in a dungeon."

Resuming tucking in his shirt, Sherlock slowly began the process of schooling his expression back into the neutral look he favored.

"I found this experience to be educational as well," he responded, pulling his jacket on.

"Oh?" She seemed mildly preoccupied by the zip of her skirt.

"Indeed. I learned a few things," he paused and ran a hand up her thigh, scraping at one of the welts on it with his fingernail. "About what you like."

The cab ride back to 221B was utterly silent. 

But it was a satisfied sort of silence.


End file.
